Things You Don't Know Yet
by Terres De Brume
Summary: The high-pitched, insufferable wail of the Mutant Detectors dies when you crumble them to the ground with an angry press of fists, pissed off by that noisy reminder that you're forever the odd one out anywhere you go.


**Note:** This is the story of how Erik met Charles for the first time and therefore takes place between '_A Place to Fit In'_ and '_I Want You To Spit In My Face_'. Sorry for the long wait: Summer job and social life went in the way of writing ^^'

**Things You Don't Know (Yet)**

The high-pitched, insufferable wail of the Mutant Detectors dies when you crumble them to the ground with an angry press of fists, pissed off by that noisy reminder that you're forever the odd one out anywhere you go –you're well aware that your lack of chip sets you apart of the other Mutants, though you're not always sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You just know Mutants that aren't chipped, those like you, who make the detectors howl rather than just glow blue, don't have the same place in Mutant world. You know you can't access Mutant-only bars, restaurants, hotels, discotheques, since those work with chip-reading machines.

Sometimes, it makes you feel alone and weary, until you remember you _are_ alone and probably somewhere beyond weary, have been since your Mama died all those years ago and they sent you to prison with pills to keep your power in check for loving her and defending yourself against her murderer. When that happens, you stomp the feeling down and force yourself to forget it, because it's safer for everyone this way –contrary to popular belief, you're not overly fond of buildings crumbling down on you, and you have your reasons to stay alive. One, you promised your mama you'd go to New York and settle there, and two –the most important one, because you're the only one who can hold count of your own successes and failings now- you promised yourself you wouldn't do anything that would have disappointed her.

Well.

Not after you'd finished your prison years, anyways –sometimes, survival does call for a break of some promises, no matter how hard you wish it didn't.

The people around you scream, more than one vendor looks at you with that kind of annoyed disgust that brands you bad publicity for the shop. Normally, you would just _glare_ at them, and be done with it, but today it just gives you a headache, and you don't really need to concentrate for the metal of the changing cabins to vibrate in time with your cardiac rhythm.

You are contemplating destroying the place when it happens.

Brusquely, almost violently, the mall falls silent as everyone stops screaming, stops moving, frozen in place by a power you don't recognize. You look at the elevators, the gallery, the potted trees downstairs with the benches and the kids frozen mid-game: nobody moves, and the only sound comes from the two or three odd birds that managed to get in via some concealed hole in the roof.

_I wouldn't advise for it. Not that I disapprove the reaction, but you might end up in a bit of trouble._

There is a distant corner of your ever bitter and self-depreciating mind that wants to say 'trouble's my middle name' but the vast majority of it is too busy shoving the voice out, putting everything you've ever read about telepath to good use by picturing rows and rows and rows of barbed wire around your thoughts, which you would even complete with 'Keep out' signs if you didn't have an image to maintain –if only to your own eyes.

You can't hear the voice anymore, of course, but you're sure you can feel a sort of resigned melancholy, like someone who hasn't dared to hope in a very long time and, when they tried, weren't really surprised that things didn't go quite according to plan.

"Sorry," a voice says, and though they're nothing alike, you _know_ it belongs to the one who spoke in your mind.

When you look to your right, you are surprised by the bluest eyes you've even seen, a mop of floppy brown hair and a sad, disillusioned smile that you surprise yourself by thinking it shouldn't have landed on that face. The man looks at you with an apology in his eye, and you feel oddly relieved that you destroyed the Mutant Detectors, you're not sure why, but a chip on _him_, with his honest gaze and open face and blue, blue eyes, that would feel even more unfair and _wrong_ than it does on any other Mutants –not that you know many of them, but still.

"I'm not fond of the things myself, so I thought I would spare you the hassle of explaining this," the stranger says, "I hadn't intended to make you feel uncomfortable."

And with that, the crowd moves again, children go back to screaming, a mother struggles to handle both her twins, an elderly woman pats your backside –and _wow_ Grannies have changed. The employees of the shop you passed earlier are now fussing over you, offering you a 50% discount on your next purchase, and you think maybe you'll let yourself be tempted –they _do_ sell nice clothes, and you like the irony of it all- but for now, all you're concerned about is the man who can speak in your head, because it suddenly occurred to you that he is the very first mutant your age you've ever met, the first one with and ability that isn't self-limited, like yours. He's the closest thing to you you've ever met, and all you've found to do was to kick him away –and okay, the kick was metaphorical, but the puppy look was very, very real, and the endless litany of _dum, dum, dum_ in your head is as painful as if you were actually beating your head against the wall.

You raid the shop and, when you go home that night, you indulge in vodka and a healthy dose of manly sulk.

The next day is a Monday, and you go to work in an ever fouler mood than usual. You have a tendency to wonder what possessed you to go into teaching on your best days, but morning like this one make you feel like destroying the school altogether: you don't even have time to set foot in the parking lot before you have to bark at Dubois for being an insufferable dick _again_ –you wish you could actually write that in the note you send his parents instead of 'serious lack of respect towards his schoolmates'.

Plus, you know today is the day they replace the old fart that died earlier this semester, a crumbly philosophy teacher who'd taken to quote Kant at you because he found it funny that you were from the same country –the oaf never managed to understand that your parents were actually _Polish_, even if they spent most of their lives in Germany. From what you've been given to see of philosophy teachers, they tend to get lost in their own little worlds with lots of big words and unrealistic principles they try to pry on you without adopting them for themselves: you expect long monologues about equality and universal love and you're bored with your colleague even before you've met them, a fact which you don't restrain from sharing with anyone who will listen once you reach the teacher's lounge.

Of course, Kelly is already there, standing between new guy and you, just coming down from his usual we're-forced-to-tolerate-mutants-but-it-doesn't-mean-we-like-the-disgusting-dangerous-and-irrespectuous-things speech, and your lips pull into a somber smirk when your eyes meet. Kelly looks disgusted, as if smelling a particularly nasty kind of dog poop, but his tone remains just shy of insulting when he extend a hand toward you and says:

"Ah, there he is. Erik Lehnsherr, mechanics teacher. That's Mutants to the letter: social, positive and charming." You know beyond the shadow of a doubt that nobody missed the sarcasm in Kelly's voice, and you grip your power tight, ready to restrain from crushing metal when you new colleague agrees with him… except things don't quite go according to plan.

"I must admit to some doubt concerning the social and positive part, but he _does_ cut a rather dashing figure."

Kelly looks absolutely dumbfounded, and your smirk becomes a little more joyful when you recognize the floppy chestnut her.

"You know each other?" Kelly asks, incredulous.

"Well, Erik here was a bit defensive when we first met, but as you so nicely put earlier, Mutants have a way to mingle into haphazard groups when it suits them… I'm not certain two can be called a group, but I am certainly not about to turn down an alliance, hazardous as it may be." Blue eyes extends a hand and treats you to a confident, _amused_ smile, accurately assuming that you'll enjoy turning the tables on Kelly as much as he does. "Nice to see you again, Erik."

"The pleasure is all mine … Charles."

Kelly is so busy hesitating between flabbergasted and indignant that he doesn't notice the split second it takes for blue eyes to plant his name –Charles Francis Xavier- in your mind, and your smirk evolves into a predatory grin, the one that makes you look –not so- slightly demented.

"I am delighted to discover that we will be working together this year, and I hope our collaboration will be a fructuous one."

"Well," you say, understanding the double meaning of Charles' words perfectly despite the short time in which you've known him, "I can't promise anything, but so far so good."

One look at Kelly's red and angry face is enough to make Charles chuckle, and you instantly _know_ that you collaboration if indeed going to be _very_ fructuous.

Of course, right now you don't know Charles and his friends will do more for the Mutant community in the next ten years than anyone has done in the past three centuries, nor do you know that he'll introduce you to the first human you will actually tolerate, or that he is, really, the love of your life: you won't know any of this until much later.

You're smiling wider than you ever have since your Mama died though, and that's enough to convince you to show Charles how to deal with the mulish coffee machine in the morning –how desperately he is going to appreciate that knowledge is another one of those numerous things you don't know yet.


End file.
